


I'm Not Here

by lezgoisay



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Cum Swallowing, Dissociation, HYDRA Trash Party, Hair Pulling, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Physical Abuse, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Rape/Non-con Elements, Reference to Incest, Trauma, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-10-06 08:18:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10330241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lezgoisay/pseuds/lezgoisay
Summary: Is it possible to be in two places at once?





	

Why is everything so hazy and indistinct? Soldat feels lost as the heavy fog swirls around him. He extends his human hand, searching for something to guide himself, something solid, something real.

He connects with an angular wooden surface which, as the mist clears, reveals itself to be a door frame, its paint chipped and scarred with age and long use. Soldat is standing half inside, half outside the doorway which opens onto an old and shabby tenement room. His eyes scan the interior.

A young blond man sits at a rickety kitchen table, intently drawing on a pad of paper. Soldat immediately assesses his threat potential. Nil. Nonexistent. The guy is short and thin, skinny even, with no visible weaponry. Soldat knows he could kill him easily with one arm tied behind his back. Hell, with both arms tied behind his back.

The young man looks up at him and Soldat feels an inexplicable jolt as their eyes meet. Intensely blue eyes framed by long, straight lashes lock on his. Then Blue Eyes smiles and Soldat is nearly undone.

Soldat enters the room. He circles the table warily, prowling like the feral animal he is.

"Why do you look familiar to me?"

Blue Eyes shrugs.

"I don't know," he says.

Soldat continues to circle, his eyes darting back and forth between Blue Eyes and the rest of his surroundings.

"Is anyone else here?"

"No, just me. Why do you have a silver arm?"

"I don't know. I just do. And I can kill you with it, so don't fuck with me."

Blue Eyes doesn't look particularly cowed by this threat. He regards Soldat with a steady, appraising gaze.

"Can I draw you?"

At this unexpected question, Soldat stops pacing.

"Why would you want to do that?"

"Because you look so unique. I've never seen anyone with a metal arm before or a uniform like yours. It would be a new challenge for me to draw you."

While Soldat is considering this, Blue Eyes gets up, slowly and carefully so as not to alarm Soldat, and moves the other kitchen chair to the middle of the room.

"Please," he says and smiles at Soldat again. Blue Eyes wears both a pair of suspenders and a belt in an effort to keep his pants up on that skinny body of his, Soldat sees. He's almost laughably harmless.

So Soldat sits down, facing him. Even sitting, Soldat is an aggressive figure, arms folded across his chest, knees spread apart, both boots planted squarely on the floor. Soldat scowls as Blue Eyes resumes his place at the table, picks up his pad and pencil, and starts sketching.

Blue Eyes draws quickly, his eyes darting back and forth between Soldat and the pad of paper. As Soldat sits for the portrait, Blue Eyes' cool, detached scrutiny of him makes Soldat fidget.

"Do you have to stare at me like that?"

"I have to look at you or I won't be able to draw you accurately."

Soldat frowns. He begins to sweat. Soldat feels increasingly exposed under Blue Eyes' searching gaze. If he had a soul, Soldat thinks, Blue Eyes would be peering into it.

Suddenly Soldat startles himself by blurting out, "Who do you see?"

Blue Eyes gives him a crooked grin. "You mean apart from a big intimidating guy who needs a haircut and a shave?"

Getting no reaction to that comment, Blue Eyes goes on more seriously. "Mainly I see a hardened soldier. Someone who's used to killing. You're like a living, breathing weapon, aren't you? You're good at being a soldier, skilled at it. Maybe even too skilled."

Blue Eyes hesitates.

"But underneath that, there's something else. Something I can't see as clearly but it's there, I know it. I feel it. Woundedness. Pain. Confusion. I glimpse it behind your eyes sometimes."

"That's complete bullshit. You're wrong."

"Okay, whatever you say. You would know, wouldn't you."

They continue in silence, Soldat sitting, Blue Eyes sketching. Finally, Blue Eyes stands and brings the finished portrait over for Soldat to see. Soldat stares at it for a long time, searching for the man that Blue Eyes sees beneath the surface.

And then, without a word, Blue Eyes sits on Soldat's knee. For some mysterious reason, it feels right to both of them. Soldat holds the drawing in his right hand and puts his left silver arm around Blue Eyes' waist. They look into each other's eyes for what seems like forever.

Taking a deep breath, Blue Eyes says: "We've been together here before. I don't know how or why, but we have."

"Yes," Soldat agrees.

Blue Eyes leans forward and gently presses his lips to Soldat's. Initially, Soldat doesn't react but then, slowly, he begins to kiss back. As Blue Eyes and Soldat kiss each other with increasing firmness and even with passion, Soldat starts to feel uncharacteristically . . . happy.

A viciously hard slap across the face snaps Soldat back to reality.

"Swallow, you bastard," his handler hisses. "Obey me."

Soldat swallows Karpov's foul-tasting cum and is rewarded with another slap, a backhanded one this time as his handler swings his arm in its return arc.

"Now get on your hands and knees like the mongrel dog you are. And this time, I want to hear you moaning like a goddamn bitch in heat while I fuck you."

Soldat complies, of course. Activated by the second set of trigger words in Vasily Karpov's red notebook with the battered gold star on front, Soldat cannot do otherwise than obey. The first, official set of trigger words activates Soldat's primary purpose, turning him into the killing machine known as the Winter Soldier. The second, unofficial set activates Soldat's secondary purpose, the sexual function that Karpov programmed into him on the side.

This secondary purpose is why Karpov keeps Soldat's hair so long. There's nothing worse for a sniper-assassin than to have long hair blowing around his face, interfering with his vision as he waits to take that crucial shot. But Karpov doesn't give a shit about that. He likes to pull Soldat around by his long hair during sex. Makes him think of his wife. Or perhaps his daughter. Both of them live in Moscow, far away from this godforsaken Siberian wasteland where he's forced to live while running the Winter Soldier program. But Soldat is here. He'll do just as well.

Karpov pulls Soldat's hair now, jerking his head back so hard Soldat thinks his neck might snap. Karpov spends some quality time beating Soldat with his belt, raising red welts on his back and ass. If Karpov hits him hard enough at just the right angle, the sharp-edged belt buckle can inflict cuts and gashes that make blood run down Soldat's buttocks. Karpov likes that. He likes to fuck something that he's made bleed.

His handler makes Soldat bleed again as he enters him from behind, rough and hard. Soldat moans as instructed during the rape, trying to keep his mind as blank as possible. Karpov's hands maintain a bruising grip on Soldat's hips until just before Karpov comes, when he reaches up with one hand to rip a fistful of hair out of Soldat's scalp.

"Yeah, scream for me, you fucking cur. Just like that."

Panting from his exertion, Karpov pulls out and wipes himself off with Soldat's discarded undershirt. Karpov pulls up his pants but doesn't replace his belt. No, he loops that around Soldat's neck, fastening the buckle tight against his Adam's apple. Karpov jerks Soldat upright and leads him by the belt into the next room. Karpov's second-in-command, Aleksander Lukin, is there, along with a technician and two or three guards.

"Okay, boys, which one of you wants to be first in line for my sloppy seconds?"

Soldat goes weak in the knees. He wants to retch up his guts but struggles not to, because it would only bring further and harsher punishment. The room starts to spin as Karpov hands him over to Lukin.

"I'm not here," Soldat thinks, closing his eyes.

"I'm not here."

"I'm not here."

"Where are you?" Blue Eyes asks, cupping Soldat's face in his hands. "You seem so far away."

Soldat opens his eyes.

"No, I'm here. I'm right here with you."

Blue Eyes smiles and leans down to kiss him. They're not in the tenement room now but in what appears to be a vintage hotel room. The furniture is dark and utilitarian. Above the double bed, there's a painting of the English countryside with hedgerows and sheep. Noisy pub clatter, drunken voices and swing music drift up through the floorboards. Leaning against the bureau is a round shield painted red, white and blue like the American flag.

They're naked beneath the covers, he and Blue Eyes. Soldat runs his human hand over Blue Eyes' broad shoulders and chest, feeling his warmth and hard muscles. Somehow, Blue Eyes is different this time. Bigger. Taller. Filled out. Soldat looks up into his eyes. Those have not changed.

Blue Eyes' metal dog tags rest on top of Soldat's chest as they kiss again. Everything is slow and languid, like they have all the time in the world.

"Your dog tags are cold."

"So is your silver arm."

Soldat would laugh, if he knew how.

Blue Eyes caresses him slowly, his big hands sliding over Soldat's body, his mouth pressing hot kisses to Soldat's neck and throat. Soldat welcomes his gentle touch, the feel of warm skin against warm skin, the pleasure of being fondled. This kind of human contact is foreign to him. Yet all of a sudden, he is hungry for it. Starved.

"Don't stop," Soldat says. "You make me feel so good. You make me feel real."

"Are you not real?"

"I don't know."

"You're real to me."

Soldat caresses Blue Eyes too. He feels the power in every inch of his muscular body but instinctively knows that Blue Eyes still poses no threat or danger to him. Soldat enjoys the sensation of Blue Eyes' body against his, loses himself in the feel of Blue Eyes' hands, his lips, his tongue.

"What do you want? Just tell me and I'll do it," Blue Eyes says.

Soldat stares blankly at him.

"What?"

Blue Eyes blushes, presses his mouth to Soldat's ear and lowers his voice. "Do you want me to suck your cock? I will. Or do you want to suck mine instead? You can," he murmurs. "And then you can fuck me too, if that's what you want. Or I can top, if you'd prefer. I'm very versatile." Blue Eyes smiles against Soldat's earlobe. "I'll give it to you any way you want. It's your choice."

"My . . . my . . . what?"

"Choice. It's your choice. We can do whatever you want."

Soldat doesn't know what to say or do. Why the hell is Blue Eyes talking about "choices" and "wants"? He's not allowed such things. Soldat remains silent.

Blue Eyes looks closely at him, searching his face the way he did when drawing Soldat in the tenement room. He sees the confusion in Soldat's eyes. He tries another approach.

"Tell me what you need, then. Tell me what your body needs."

"Needs" means no more to Soldat than "choices" or "wants" do. He's not allowed to have needs either.

Instead of answering, Soldat buries his head in the crook of Blue Eyes' neck and kisses him there. He rubs Blue Eyes' back with broad, open-handed strokes and then holds him tight.

"I'm safe here with you," he says.

It's Blue Eyes' turn to remain silent as he contemplates the situation. He looks down at Soldat's dark head nestled against his shoulder. Blue Eyes remembers the woundedness and pain he drew in Soldat's portrait.

Blue Eyes puts his arms around Soldat and presses up against him so Soldat can feel as much of his skin as possible. Blue Eyes resumes his caressing, touching and fondling, but makes no further attempt to sexualize their activity. He simply continues making gentle and loving contact. Blue Eyes does his best to help Soldat feel real, to give Soldat what he can see is wanted and needed even if Soldat himself can't recognize or articulate it.

Soldat closes his eyes. He luxuriates in the feel of Blue Eyes' hands. He even smiles a little and dares to relax.

Rough hands grab Soldat, shove him into the chair and fasten its arm and leg restraints. They ram the tongue guard between his teeth while the chair's high-tech metal head clamps circle, turn and begin their descent.

"Hose him down after you wipe him and then stick him back in cryo," Karpov orders. "We won't need him again for awhile."

As the blinding pain commences in his head, Soldat screams and convulses. Through his dense brain fog and fading consciousness, he sees Blue Eyes holding out his hand.

"Don't worry. I'm here. I'll be deep down inside your heart, so deep they can never find me. Don't despair. I'm with you until the end of the line, I swear it."


End file.
